The Literary Review
Coyote at the Edge of the Woods
A coyote at the edge of the woods
emerges out of thin air.
It stands there like a grey shadow.
Silent and unmoving.
It sees me
and I watch.
It’s my first.
Suddenly
my childhood woods
are wild and dangerous.
Glory of the Skies
What does the eagle see?
Not his white head
and yellow beak.
Not his proud eyes
or expansive size.
He sees the world below
and those who dwell
far beneath
mouse, squirrel and fish.
He soars above
Fields, forest, and estuary.
He sees you and me,
but keeps his distance.
He flies among the clouds,
soaring with the currents
beneath his wing,
building nests in the tops of trees by
creeks, lakes and rivers.
No, the eagle does not see
the sun’s incandescence
in his white tail
it only knows the power
of its huge talons
as it grasps its mated pair,
tumbling through the air
in the glory of the skies.
How Long Before…
How long before the
wolf cries again?
The mountain rises?
The seas replenish?
The answer cowers
beneath a shadow of doubt.
How long before the
peregrine’s eggs heal?
The tiger roams free?
The elephant tusk grows?
The answer hovers
Near for those who see.
How long before the
freedom of the sky fails?
The air we breathe fails?
The rains dry up?
The answer depends
on you and me and God.
The stars and sun
The solar system and galaxy
depends on faith alone.
We are so small,
so small…
A Phoenix Rising
Spirit is what we cry for
the rebirth of a nation.
Courage to believe
in something bigger
than ourselves.
A vision of tomorrow
where the sun doesn’t burn
and the rain water is pure.
A small, red bite
of gumption
to choose to listen
to that tiny voice
inside our heart.
Where a fall doesn’t
lead to the end,
but transforms into
a phoenix rising. . .
There’s a Birch Tree. . .
There’s a birch tree—a birch tree
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
A sign that we might survive.
Let it live, let it thrive, the birch tree
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Trapped life seeking a mouth of steel
seed that accepted the way things are,
but then never compromised the way things should be.
The seed that’s now a tree—
Where do your roots go?
How do they drink?
Branches held so high,
their green, reflect the silver of
the garters down below.
High above the rise of skyscrapers,
blowing in the wind.
It’s a birch tree—a birch tree on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Branches grow and mend the hole up in the sky…
Maybe it can work.
Steel-wood will build an empire.
Or were you just a quirk, standing in the sun,
born of acid rain and the dirt from the trains,
passing steam up to the sky?
But there’s a birch tree—
a birch tree–
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
